There are still a few men who love desperately.

Phooey, I say, on all white-shoe college boys who edit their campus literary magazines. Give me an honest con man any day.

An artist's only concern is to shoot for some kind of perfection, and on his own terms, not anyone else's.

Sometimes you get tired of riding in taxicabs the same way you get tired riding in elevators. All of a sudden, you have to walk, no matter how far or how high up.

I'm one of the little foxes that spoil the grapes.

People are mostly hot to have a discussion when you're not.

This fall I think you're riding for—it's a special kind of fall, a horrible kind. The man falling isn't permitted to feel or hear himself hit bottom. He just keeps falling and falling. The whole arrangement's designed for men who, at some time or other in their lives, were looking for something their own environment couldn't supply them with. Or they thought their own environment couldn't supply them with. So they gave up looking. They gave it up before they ever really even got started.